In a hidden grove where the green vines twine, lives a man made of marijuana, a myth in time. Leaves for hair, buds for hands, always lighting up, the Marijuana Man. Marijuana Man, he smokes his own kind, lost in a haze, out of his mind. In a cloud of green, he fades away, Marijuana Man, can't see the light of day. Every puff takes him further from here, a self-consuming spiral, year after year. Rolling joints from his fingers and toes, a burning desire, everywhere he goes. Marijuana Man, he smokes his own kind, lost in a haze, out of his mind. In a cloud of green, he fades away, Marijuana Man, can't see the light of day. Roots in the ground, but dreams in the sky, he burns a little more with each sigh. Ashes to ashes, smoke to smoke, Marijuana Man, a life bespoke. In the twilight hour, he’s just a glow, a flickering ember, a tale of woe. Consuming himself to feel alive, Marijuana Man, how long can he survive? Marijuana Man, he smokes his own kind, lost in a haze, out of his mind. In a cloud of green, he fades away, Marijuana Man, can't see the light of day. When the night falls and the stars ascend, Marijuana Man nears his end. A legend told in whispers and smoke, of a man who lived and with each puff broke.